The Man, The Legion, The Law
In Luke 8, there’s a moment so jarring, so counterintuitive, that it’s easy to read past it without letting it trouble us. Jesus sails across the lake, steps into Gentile territory, and is immediately confronted by a man tormented by a legion of demons. We know the story: Jesus heals him. The demons beg to enter a herd of pigs. The pigs rush down a cliff and drown. The man is found clothed and in his right mind, sitting at the feet of Jesus.
And then this: “All the people of the region of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to leave them, because they were overcome with fear.” (Luke 8:37)
Fear? Of what?
This healing was a liberation. A miracle. The man was free. But freedom, as it turns out, is a scary thing—especially when it disrupts the order we’ve grown comfortable with.
The Gerasene region was under Roman occupation, and with that came the so-called Pax Romana—a “peace” maintained by the iron fist of the empire. It was predictable, hierarchical, clean. It was also, often, dehumanizing. The word Legion wasn’t just a spooky name—it was the term for a Roman military unit, a chilling reminder of the occupying force that kept everything in line. Even the demons in this story speak with the voice of empire.
Under Pax Romana, peace came at a cost: compliance or coercion. Be like us, or be restrained. The demoniac—naked, howling, and chained among the tombs—was a living parable of what happens to people who don’t fit the mold.
Paul picks up this thread in Galatians 3. He describes the Law as a guardian—rigid, necessary, but ultimately incomplete. The Law was good at one thing: drawing lines. Who's in, who's out. Who’s clean, who’s unclean. Who belongs at the table, and who should stay in the tombs.
But Christ came to break those lines wide open.
Grace isn’t neat. Faith can’t be chained. The Kingdom of God isn’t a well-behaved classroom—it’s a feast with a guest list that scandalizes the righteous. When Jesus healed the demoniac, He didn’t just restore one man’s mind—He exposed a whole region’s willingness to tolerate evil as long as it looked like order.
No wonder they asked Him to leave.
It’s worth asking: What does “peace” cost in our world today? Are there comforts we enjoy—safety, predictability, privilege—that exist only because someone else has been pushed to the margins? Are there voices we’ve silenced, systems we’ve normalized, because the alternative feels too chaotic?
Jesus will always challenge the systems that prize order over mercy. He will always side with the wild, the cast-out, the ones in chains. And sometimes, that will make even the faithful among us nervous.
But the Kingdom of God does not come to restrain—it comes to set free.
The man in the tombs wasn’t the only one to find himself exiled and undone. Elijah, too, when pushed to the margins, once fled into the wilderness, collapsing under a broom tree, possessed by the demon of suicide. He too ended up in the caves, much like the one that held the Gerasene man.
But God doesn’t come to Elijah with an iron first. He comes in the silence.
Not with chains or commands, but with a question: “What are you doing here?”
Not with judgment, but with calling: “Go, return on your way.”
Not with rebuke, but with purpose: “Anoint the next king.”
Whether it’s the prophet or the demoniac, the whisper of healing sounds the same—God’s Kingdom moves through grace, not force. It calls the cast-out back in, not to restrain them, but to restore them. It dares to believe that freedom, even messy freedom, is more beautiful than enforced peace.
